


The Difficulty of Wedlock

by shadow13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Consumation, F/M, Humor, References to sexual acts, marriage AU, sex comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow13/pseuds/shadow13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr Baelish is not a man to make mistakes; it is only thanks to his genius and planning that he was able to wed himself to the young and beautiful heir to the North, Sansa Stark. But marriage is complicated, emotions no less so, and what is a newly wed couple to do when communication breaks down?<br/>Hilarity and nonsense ensues. A comedy of errors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Difficulty of Wedlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ocularis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocularis/gifts).



> Written to blow off steam during my residency week of grad school. For Ocularis and my amazing beta, Mztlynne.  
> A sex comedy of sorts.

The Lord Baelish was not a man to make many missteps.

The Mockingbird planned his schemes out to the most infinitesimal details, to every range of possibilities. He could do it as swordsmen drew their weapons, or lesser men blinked. It was only the capitol's fools who underestimated the man, and to their grave peril. His was a genius that could be seen working late into the night, when less ambitious men slept or whored or were generally oblivious to his greater workings of destiny; and so it was also with this, his latest triumph.

A thing of true beauty, to be tipped into Lord Tywin's ear. Lord Baelish had not inherited much from his lowly father, but the ability to influence higher-born men was a skill he had taken with pleasure, and then grown to a largesse that was epic in scale. While the boy king raged senselessly and violently against his own kingdom and Lord Tywin ruled great Westeros, Littlefinger could be seen at the end of meetings of the small council, just whispering in the august man's ear. _What of the Stark girl, Lord Tywin_? These words poured as smoothly as the wine did into the Lion's cup. _When you rid yourself of the upstart Robb, she is your key to the North. So many pockets for her to fall in to._ It was only clear that the Lannister patriarch heard by virtue of his silence, that he did not shoo away this nothing from the Fingers. _But so many doors she could open, too...That lovely, obedient face – so many men who would be in your debt to have her. Think carefully, my Lord Hand, before you waste such a prize. Some would owe you more than others_.

If there was anything the Master of Coin and a Lannister had in common, it was a deep and abiding understanding of debts.

It had to be carefully done – but it was. Lord Tywin took the hint, the bait, if one were to be uncharitable. To the shock of a great many (and with no surprise at all to a very few), Lady Sansa Stark found a Mockingbird cloak swept across her shoulders on a punishingly hot day in the Sept of Baelor. Her new lord's eyes glittered with a queer triumph as they chorused lowly (he with a cool satisfaction, and her with considerably greater trepidation) “ _I am hers/ and he is mine/ from this day, to the end of my days_ .”

Unfortunately, it was around this point where Lord Baelish's oh-so-carefully laid plans went totally awry.

 

* * *

 

 

_Far too much to drink_ . He was stumbling when the nails of the harpies that had dragged him through the halls for the bedding ceremony at last released him, clothing totally disheveled, breeches hanging lowly on his hips for being unlaced. His little bride had not fared much better; His Grace the King had managed to rip her silvery skirt to the thigh, some brute or another had completely torn her sleeves so that her bare, milky shoulders were shown to all present, and the young girl trembled in the center of the bed, her drunken escort leaving only now that the bridegroom appeared. Had Lord Baelish been his more standard, cautious self – and slightly less inebriated – he would have pulled well back, cooing gentle reassurances and covering his new wife with a modest robe. He would have planned for the long-term, winning her over with half-empty kindnesses and meaningless words of comfort. Indeed, this had been his intention.

But it was his considered opinion, both then and later, that the sight of that unblemished, red-haired beauty in the marriage bed, unkempt and  _gorgeous_ , would have stirred even the cock-less Spider into action. Lord Baelish was less over-cautious husband, more besotted lover. It was an easy mistake to make, especially when certain appendages demanded taking over thought processes from the brain, and the brain was drunk enough to allow this.

The lord's collapse onto the bed was slightly inelegant, and the girl bounced from his weight, soundless but for a small squeak of terrified surprise. “Lady Sansa.” Gods above, in recollection, he hoped  _fervently_ his voice had not been a slur. “Will you believe me, I wonder, if I tell you how deeply I have longed for just such a moment?”

Sansa's new husband had hold of her by the wrist – but it was not the vicious, vice-like grip of Joffrey that she was used to, and so, for the moment, she kept the beat of her heart from becoming a mad tattoo. The Mockingbird was leaving slightly sloppy kisses along her tendons and palm, and the girl was not quite sure what to do about it. “I...” She hesitated, sharp blue eyes trying to take him in as best she could; she had spent so little time with this man, and now she was  _tied_ to him, for the rest of her natural life? She amalgamated what she did know as quickly as possible, the better to gauge her new position. Older, yes, far older than she'd ever anticipated – but younger than, say, Lord Tywin or Grand Maester Pycelle, so that could have been much worse...The grey at his temples was not as much of a detraction as she might have thought. Not tall, her own height, and not a shining knight, but he was thin and trim. His breath was heavy with wine, but it wasn't  _foul_ , and he wasn't slovenly and fat like the late King Robert. What did she know of this enigmatic man from the Fingers? Brilliant, even people who didn't like him said so. Rich, which was its own kind of virtue, she supposed... _Devoted to her mother_ . There. The one ray of light in an otherwise mad and dismal world. Sansa grabbed hold of this fact and clung to it for all she could. “I would find that hard to believe, my lord.”

Lord Baelish was overcome with his triumphs, his smirking smile was slovenly. He leaned over his absolute  _prize_ of a bride –  _Lady Baelish, Lady Baelish, I win, I win, I win_ – and pressed her down into the softness of the sheets. “I have lied to many people, my sweetling, and I will continue to do so – but here is my wedding gift. I shall never lie to you.”

“Th-that is a....strange promise, my lord.”

“Petyr, Sansa, please. Let's hurry to...get to know one another.”

“Yes, of course, Pe-!” The sentence was broken off in a high-pitched squeak, for the man had bent his mouth to the crook of her neck and caressed her not only for the first time in her life, but with great enthusiasm. It wasn't that the sensation was an unpleasant one – though it was true Sansa had no idea how to go about getting through a bedding to an absolute stranger – but the surprise of it was catching her off guard. “D-Don't you want to...to talk first?”

The fingers of his left hand drummed against her hip, feeling and stroking by turns, while the lord's mouth continued to find itself deliciously occupied with  _his new wife's_ throat. The right hand was plucking what remained of her laces. He was going to enjoy this night  _so well_ ... “Oh yes, my dear, speak – I want to know it all...”

“All of wha-” Another gasp as the tips of warm fingers found the apex of her thighs. Another very strange sensation, but...well, somehow, a little enjoyable.

The lord was grinning, still scattering kisses over his new wife's now flushing face. “Every thought and feeling, Sansa, sweetling...” The hand not busied in increasing the dampness he found between her gorgeous legs was making quick work of both of their laces. “Tell me what you like and what you don't...”

Sansa bit her lip, cheeks thoroughly flushed as the man's questing fingers found some secret spot at her pelvis and rubbed and pressed in such a way as to make her entire body  _twitch_ involuntarily. And he wished to  _quiz_ her at such a moment! “L-lemon cakes...?” the girl offered weakly, breathing becoming heavy as she felt the corset loosening around her heaving body. She wasn't sure if she was glad to see it go or not.

“Hmmm.” Baelish's response was a purr at her breast, the vibrations of which went straight through to her sternum and made the girl  _whimper_ , which was most certainly not a sound she had ever made before this moment. His tongue had found new occupation with the soft point of her nipple and gods above, had the temperature of the room increased  _that_ much to make beads of sweat form at the small of her back? “What a wicked thought that is, my sweet...But I do enjoy your mind.” Was that meant to be a compliment, then? “I think you would be  _divine_ tasting of lemons.” Sansa Stark had no idea how her new husband consumed his lemon cakes, but she suspected that it was very differently from how she had for her short lifetime. The Stark girl turned Baelish might have tried to ask him some questions of her own – but suddenly the slickness of her body allowed one of his digits to sink  _inside_ of her and the young lady gasped. “Sh, sh, sh...” Sansa couldn't think straight to save herself, but she felt the man's lips pressed against her temple. “Perfect little thing...Not to worry. I shan't hurt you.” It was all Sansa could do to keep from making more appalling, wanton noises as her husband's finger – soon joined by a compatriot – twisted and turned within her. She did not fully recollect when the last scraps of her bridal gown had been shed, nor exactly when the lord had stripped himself as well – but oh, none of that mattered, with that amazing sense of pressure building up where that little nub of flesh was! It made Sansa's hips chase the movements of the man's fingers, unsure of what she sought, only knowing she needed  _more_ of something – and then, then-!

She couldn't even process what had just happened, the amazing little lightening twitches that raced along her legs and made her toes curl; that could hardly be focused upon when something broader than a finger settled at her entrance, and even innocent Sansa knew what  _that_ was. The girl didn't protest, didn't speak, simply gasped for air like a fish on the shore as Baelish steadied himself with one hand at her shoulder. And he kissed her, wildly, with abandon, the kind of kiss Sansa  _had_ to return, she didn't know what else to do! His tongue had been caressing the inside of her mouth when he slipped in. It wasn't as painful as she had feared it would be, but it  _was_ disorienting. Uncomfortable feelings of fullness and stretching and pressure...but that gave way, bit by bit, so that she thought she could sense something more or less pleasant beneath the movements of her husband within her. Petyr might have been speaking, but if he was, the words were nonsense, gibberish too quiet for the girl to catch. His lips were better employed nipping at the soft lobe of her ear or sucking along her collarbone. Time went strangely, so that Sansa could not have said how much had passed, when the man stiffened above her and inside of her as well, a shuddering breath that sounded near  _painful_ the clearest indication that  _something_ had happened, some goal had been reached. Was that it, then? That hot sensation the spilling of seed? If so, it wasn't  _horrible_ , but she was still unsure if she understood it or not...The newly anointed Lady Baelish let her mate still above her, her fingers hesitantly running over the smoothness of his back and the nubs of his ribs and spine before she gathered her thoughts to speak. “Petyr...” Her voice was a hoarse whisper in the gathering dark of the room as the candles slowly guttered around the bed.

Unfortunately, Lord Baelish was celebrating his triumph a little too early, cloaked in the fog of a satisfied pleasure. He took the use of his given name to be a sign of approbation on the part of his wife, and he reveled in success, in pleasing her, in being wanted just a little bit too soon. “ _Sansa_ ,” he repeated her name rapturously, not yet pulling from her perfect body. And oh, wasn't it perfect, the tightness and the heat of her, and all those sweet little noises she had made- “Precious, dear Sansa...”

The girl's blue eyes lit up. This was going to work! “Please, I have to ask you something.”

“ _Anything_ .” The man pulled from her slowly, left a lingering, sucking kiss at her left breast as he settled above and around her. “Anything you want...”

The girl sat up, pulling the silken sheet up with her – which covered her exposed bosom  _and_ knocked her husband from off of her. “ _Please, my lord, I know you bear great affection for my lady mother, and I swear it upon my honor as your wife that she would be eternally grateful for my return_ !”

_That_ was not the statement the lord had been expecting. To say he looked flabbergasted would have, perhaps, been understating matters slightly. “ _I beg your pardon_ ?” His voice was a wheeze; not due to anger, but more total shock and the sensation that the liberal consumption of wine was catching up to him far more vengefully than he had anticipated.

“My brother, too! Robb wouldn't care that you worked with the Lannisters, not at all, if you were to get me safely home! Lord Baelish – Petyr, I mean Petyr – I will speak to him, you can have whatever holding you want, I  _swear_ it. But if we could just go to the North – o-oh, but, um-”  _Hold together, Sansa, remember what he wants_ . Her mother, yes, if she could somehow make him believe- “If you find you do not want me then, if it is my lady mother you are bent on, I vow on my honor as a Stark that I will not protest the annulment!  _Please_ , my lord,  _please_ ?”

Petyr lay upon his back on the bridal bed, not entirely unlike a cockroach that has been completely bested by a much more savvy cat. “Your mother...You wish to speak of your  _mother_ ?” Was this a thing? With virgins? Did their husbands make them come and then they sat up to discuss familial relations? It was a hard way to feel his wife and his own seminal contributions drying along his shaft. “Is something.... _wrong_ ?” Was it? Was he not quite as grand as he thought he was? Alright, he'd drank, but surely.... _surely_ he hadn't so completely failed to impress that-

“I-I-” Sansa's fists lay on her lord's chest, she leaned over him to see if he was angered with her or not – but then quickly drew away when her left hand rested on something smooth along his torso, and she realized she was pressing upon an  _enormous_ scar. Oh gods, did it still hurt him? She drew quickly away, more bashful, and pressed the point. “I need to return  _home_ , my lord.”

“ _Petyr_ .”

“Petyr, yes, Petyr, whatever you say!”

The man groaned, pressing the heel of his palm into now incredibly painful eyes; he was sobering up far more quickly than he'd planned. “ _I have a headache_ .”

“O-oh...S-shall I call you the maester, my lord? I mean Petyr. Have I upset you – I-I didn't mean – th-that is-”  _Oh no_ . She'd tipped her hand too early! If he breathed a word back to the Queen Regent-! A nervous laugh escaped the girl's lips. “I-I....I was jesting, my l-  _Petyr_ . I-I have no wish to leave King's Landing, I-I...I have traitor's blood, you know, so sometimes-”

“ _Stop_ .” The long finger of her husband's left hand rested against Sansa's kiss reddened lips and she froze – found herself examined by bloodshot, green-grey eyes very, very carefully. After a long, unbearable pause, the man sighed. “....It is time to sleep, my lady.” Sansa fought the trembling of her lower lip, and nodded. After a moment's hesitation, Baelish pressed a kiss to the girl's forehead – but he had  _no idea_ why he bothered, because gods damn it, he'd just fucked a girl into bringing up her  _mother_ , what in the seven hells was wrong with him that he managed to do  _that_ !

Sansa slid beneath the gauzy sheet in absolute silence, curling in on herself with the determination to take up as little space as was physically possible. Her husband settled on his side next to her, back facing the girl. It was now absolutely quiet save for the last sputtering of the candles along the bedside table and, rather fittingly, both were struck with the thought  _I have completely_ ruined  _that chance._

 

* * *

 

 

The week did not go significantly better.

Sansa was somewhat hopeful, that she could salvage this, if she merely impressed upon her new master the  _depth_ of her obedience and affection. The lord would scarcely have crossed the threshold of the chamber before the girl would throw herself at him. From a complete lack of worldly experience, Sansa was not the grandest seductress, but bless her, she did  _try_ . Her small hands fisted into the heavy brocade of his doublet, and she would kiss him; scattered kisses over brow and nose, and sometimes amateur presses of her lips at his mouth, but always with her own mouth closed, so her success was never going to be very great. Petyr would hold her by her upper arms and carefully and decorously pull her off. “That is...not necessary, Sansa, sweetling, but thank you.” A cough. “I, uh, missed you as well?”

When that tactic failed to produce the desired results (those being a sign of satisfaction from her lord, so that she knew he would at  _least_ not tattle on her to the Queen), Sansa upped her game. Baelish would enter, exhausted from his labors, and his gorgeous, nubile young wife would have hands flying to the ties of her gown, offering to undress herself then and there to please him.

Petyr was rather sure someone was trying to torture him, like tales of men who had so offended the gods that their every day was a kind of misery.

His throat dry, his composure only just barely held back ( _She's standing in front of the desk, she is_ offering herself to you on your desk –  _but ah, no, hold back, keep it together. She doesn't even know_ -), the lord would groan and want to drink himself to death like Robert Baratheon, staying her hands and telling her, “No, Sansa, let's... _not_ . Let's....talk?” Yes, talk. Find out what in his performance had made her bring up her family, or if she found him entirely repulsive, or  _something_ .

“Talk?” He wished to talk? Was he angry, was he trying to find out more information with which to trap the girl there? If they talked, then how could she impress upon him what a good little wife she was, and then how would she be safe, or escape King's Landing? “....what about, my lord –  _Petyr_ .” No wonder he disliked her, she was  _always_ doing that.

Petyr rubbed his temple with a dry, aching hand. “It doesn't matter, dear, say whatever you're most comfortable with...”

“Y-yes, alright, as you like.”

Silence stretched between them.

Neither one said anything.

Somewhere in the yard, a raven could be heard crying for corn.

Petyr coughed and reached for a flagon of wine. Getting drunk wasn't going to help matters, clearly, but he had to do  _something_ . “Tell me about yourself, Sansa. Tell me a secret – your  _dreams_ .”

Oh no, she could see through that one clear as day. “I only wish to make you happy, Petyr – my lord – Petyr?”  _Oh gods, this is awful_ . “To bear you sons and serve the realm.”

The Mockingbird downed his wine in a single gulp. It burned tannic on the way down and he grimaced. “How very sweet you are, my darling...”

“W-what I said before – about returning home-”

_Oh shit, here it comes_ . “Yes, about that-”

“I didn't mean – that is to say, I was giddy from the, uh-”

“But then again, here you are, with a strange man for husband-”

“Did someone say I was unhappy? I'm not, I'm not, you mustn’t believe them, my lord! I mean Petyr!  _I mean_ -”

“ _What is going to please you, Sansa_ ?” The elder gentleman laid his palm firmly on his young bride's soft shoulder, pressing with perhaps a bit too much pressure. Yes, that was it! Drown her in all the luxuries his wealth and position afforded, and  _then_ surely she would not propose annulling their union, or at  _least_ she might not bring up yet  _more_ relations while they were having, ah, relations. “Space, perhaps? Of course, being a new bride is very hard. Do you need....time to adjust?” Could he blame her? A girl like Sansa, who loved tall, handsome knights nearer her own age, wedded to him? Petyr was no fool. He understood better than most how human hearts were bent, and he could not even resent her for it. “Your own rooms, perhaps?”

_He's sending me away_ ? Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. How  _badly_ must she have done in the marriage bed that not only would her husband  _not_ touch her, but he wanted her nowhere  _near_ him? The former Stark girl was fighting back tears of frustration and rejection and broken dreams with all she had. “Is....is that what you want, my lord?”

“I want what  _you_ want, Sansa, sweetling.”

“Y-yes...yes, that sounds lovely.” She would be obedient, she wouldn't say a word.

“Excellent. Excellent....I'll see that arranged...tomorrow – or do you want it now, this very night?”

“Y-yes?”

“Excellent.” The lord stood; something that required action, thank the  _gods_ . He would impress her yet. “Excuse me, pray.” 

And that was how Sansa found herself back in her own suite for solar, exactly like she'd never been wed at all. It was also where her handmaid found her several days later, weeping in disappointment and frustration.

 

* * *

 

 

A week. Married for a week, to  _Sansa Stark –_ more beautiful than Catelyn, more beautiful than any woman in King's Landing by far; his, all his, and not only could he  _not_ touch her, but he so completely failed to arouse her that when he did so, she spoke of cakes and brothers and nothing at all like, “ _Yes, Petyr, there, Petyr – have I told you how_ sensual  _your beard is_ ?”

Littlefinger was in a  _bad_ mood when the young man entered his brothel office. 

“Well?” He was unusually snappish as Olyvar crossed the threshold, beaming while he showed off his newest acquisition.

“What do you think, my lord? Is he not exactly as you asked for?”

Asked for? Ah, he had forgotten. A client with a taste for strapping young men, who found trying to bugger his squires caught the attention of far too many people. The young man before him, perhaps nineteen, was tall and muscled, and someone who cared might have wondered if the lad came from an apprenticeship or a merchant vessel or anywhere at all. Brown haired, nervous blue eyes, he'd do alright – if he could  _learn_ . “Does he have a name?”

“Rian, m'lord,” the youth nervously coughed.

“Fine. How many men have you fucked?”

“I, er, ah-” The hemming and hawing, the nervous fiddling around his belt did  _not_ please the proprietor any.

“ _Olyvar_ ,” his voice was a gruff, irritated growl, and the prostitute-cum-steward quickly stepped forward with hands outstretched, white teeth beaming and generally trying to reassure his employer.

“I know what you're thinking, my lord – but he served Kevan Lannister as cup-bearer, and comes very highly recommended! The boy knows how to follow orders!”

“An  _ox_ knows how to follow orders, and that was  _not_ the desire I was tasked with filling.” Irritated, the Mockingbird scratched his pen along the parchment, matching columns and figures and trying not to lose his temper about teaching idiotic boys how to bend over and also not to think about the prospect of teaching his young wife much the same and – no, no, not the time for that! 

“Trust me, Lord Baelish, the lad will quite charm you! Rian – wine for my lord.” He winked reassuringly at the boy, whose hands shook as he collected the decanter, and did not stop shaking as he approached his prospective employer – and it was around the pouring process that most of it spilled not only over the desk and pages Lord Baelish was hard at work balancing, but over Lord Baelish himself. A ring of curses and shouts, of “beg your pardon”s and “I'll launder it me self”s could be heard through the office door, and was actually enough to pause some of the women and men in their labors at the brothel.

 

* * *

 

 

Shae fit in better among the lions than she was given credit for. Not at all unlike a lionness, when she entered her lady's chamber to find the girl  _weeping_ , she pounced as in defense of a treasured cub. “Has he hurt you, Lady Sansa? I will see him unmanned if he has, I-”

Sansa shook her head, trying desperately to calm herself. “I have ruined it  _all_ , Shae!” she sobbed, face red and eyes swollen with her tears. “I have so offended him he sent me from his bed, he will not even touch me! A-am I repulsive? Have I done something wrong?”

“ _Repulsive_ ?” she repeated, brushing dark locks of hair behind the sobbing girl's ear. “Nothing of the kind. Why would you say so?”

“It is either that, or he is terribly cross with me, and I have tried so  _hard_ to please him! How will I be safe in King's Landing if I do not ally myself with my husband?” 

“Start over. What is he doing.” Sansa explained her husband's dismissal of her; Shae's dark eyebrows crinkled upon hearing talk of her lady's attempts at  _seduction_ . That would need some work with the finesse of the thing. However, she was actually quite proud of the girl, that she was using every tool available to her to better her position, to get  _out_ . The Essosi woman pondered for a moment, soothing the girl by running hands up and down her arms. “What is it he does all day?” she asked with her honeyed voice, and Sansa sniffled, wringing her handkerchief, as was her wont.

“D-do?” she repeated as her breathing slowly calmed. “H-he...His business, I suppose, his...” Ugh, a terrible thought. “His  _brothel_ .”

“If  _I_ had a husband who surrounded himself all day with whores, either I would let him know the law in my home, or I would not have a husband.”

It was not a thought Sansa had considered. But surely she was mistress of their shared domicile if she was his wife? And she was that, it would be a hard fact to deny when his seed had dribbled and dried on her inner thigh but a week before. It was not often Sansa asked her maid's advice, but she nodded and collected her composure. “What would you do, Shae?”

The older, wiser, more worldly woman gave a very small, controlled smile. “Let us get your shawl, my lady, and perhaps a litter, and go out into the city.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Gods damned fucking imbecile_ -”

“Pardon, m'Lord Littlefinger, my hands slipped, and-”

“Rian,  _shut up_ .”

There was no knock at the study door, it would not have been heard had there been one. Instead, the barely dressed brunette poked her head in, trying not to shout, but  _dearly_ wishing to be heard. “My Lord Baelish – if it please you, ser-”

“ _Forget about the doublet and dry off my papers, lout_ .”

“I will, m'lord, I will!”

“Lord Baelish, your  _wife_ -!”

The girl was not heard, instead a litany of curses continued to pour from the Mockingbird's mouth. “For gods' sakes, if he's as poor at  _sucking_ as he is at  _serving_ -”

It was into this chaos Lady Sansa entered, followed closely by her maid.

The room and its occupants – Lord Baelish, Olyvar and the boy Rian, the girl having wisely made herself scarce – went absolutely still. It is important to impress what kind of scene the lady was given upon entering the working study of her husband at his labors: after loud and not-at-all discreet mentions of depraved sexual acts, Lord Baelish could be seen standing in just his breeches and tunic, his doublet held in the arms of a flushed and not at all un-handsome young man; his handsomeness beside the question, unless the lord were bathing or being fitted by his tailor (obviously neither of which were currently happening) there was absolutely no reason besides the  _carnal_ that anyone  _other_ than the man's wife should see him in such a state of dishabille. A third witness in the room did not help matters. Moreover, Lady Sansa had just gathered her courage to pick up her skirts and walk through the most appalling (and also strangely luxurious) den of infamy that she had ever, in her short and sheltered life, laid eyes upon. She knew  _exactly_ what was going on behind the closed doors, and also in front of the closed doors, and just rather everywhere generally.

The girl was  _furious_ .

Baelish spread his arms in a gesture of incredibly stupid and desperate welcome. “Sansa, darling! What a rare and wonderful treat to have you come to see me in the middle of the afternoon!”

Shae snorted. The girl's cheeks were as red with outrage as her copper hair. “I am well aware, my lord, that men do seek the company of women other than their  _wives –_ that this has been your business for some time, and I never made a  _word_ of protest or mention of it. But if you think I will stand for  _this_ -”

“Stand for-?  _No_ .” It was unusual to see the lord in a state of mild panic, Olyvar raised a curved eyebrow as his employer rushed to the girl, who was about to turn and storm out. Petyr grabbed for Sansa's hands, squeezing and stroking by turns. “A  _grand_ misunderstanding, sweetling – sweet one –  _dear_ Sansa-”

“Oh,  _now_ I am dear Sansa!” The girl pulled away, enraged.

Her husband's laugh was awkward and failed to calm her. “How could you be anything else?”

“Lady Baelish.” Bravely, Olyvar tried to intervene. He lay his hand upon her shoulder. “Can I take your shawl? Some tea, perhaps?”

The girl violently shrugged him off. “ _Don't touch me_ !”

This set off a chorus of angry voices. “Do not touch my lady!” from Shae, and “Hands off!” from Petyr, and general chaos until the participants in the argument retreated a space in the room. There were heavy, angered breaths, and Baelish ran a ringed hand through his still dark hair, mussing it slightly. “Dear Sansa,” he sighed. “Whatever your fears are, I wish to allay them.  _Nothing_ has happened, I give you my word.”

“If that were true,  _why_ would you not come to me at night,  _ever_ !”

Olyvar choked, Rian nearly dropped the Mockingbird's doublet. “ _Ever_ , my lord?”

“Rian,  _shut up_ .”

The lord grimaced. “Could we not discuss this  _privately_ , my love?”

“Love! Do not insult me, my lord, I am not that foolish – I understand why you wed me.”

“You are a beautiful young woman, why would I  _not_ wish to wed you?”

“That was perhaps a bonus to you, a remembrance of my mother, but I know I was wed for my position, not for  _affection_ . It was foolish of me, tis true enough, to admit to you my own private desires, but I still  _endeavored_ to be a good wife!” She fought back angry tears. “I-It was a  _cruelty_ to tell me you wished to lay beside me, when it was only for your gain, and a worse one still to then completely ignore me in favor of such debauchery!”

“ _Sansa_ -”

“And I don't know how I can be blamed for wishing to leave his terrible place! In any event, my lord, your position will be assured whether we stay or we go, since you have managed to wed yourself to the heir to the North after Robb.”

“What would  _I_ do with the North!”

“What does  _anyone do_ with the North, Petyr!”

“ _I have no desire to discuss your position, and_ especially  _not your brother or extended family, either now or in our bed_ !”

“ _We_ don't have a bed, you have cast me off – for I must obviously  _repulse_ you compared to your carefully groomed... _whores_ !” The girl paused, flushed with anger, and turned to Olyvar with a curtsey. “Begging your pardon, ser.”

“I take no offense, my lady.”

Lord Baelish looked honestly distraught, as though deeply wounded, and for a moment, Sansa regretted her hasty, impassioned speech. “You think I prefer  _this_ ,” he asked her, spreading his hand to indicate the room, “to  _you_ ?”

Sansa blushed, casting her gaze down to her little slipper-ed feet for a moment before looking up again. “What else am I to think?”

The lord pulled the girl closer by the wrist, making Shae start in her defense. “What kind of idiot do you take me as, that not only would I marry  _you_ to bring myself closer to your  _mother –_ which makes no kind of sense of any sort – and then prefer those who are  _paid performers_ ?”

Sansa wriggled in her husband's grasp, but weakly. “You expect me to believe, surrounded by all this, you  _never_ broke our marriage vows?”

“ _Yes_ .”

“Well, I do  _not_ .”

Petyr ran his lithe hand over his face in consternation. “ _Very well._ No doubt you remember what it's like when a man is  _interested_ in consummation.”

“W-what?  _Oh_ .” The girl was red for a different reason now. “Y-yes, but-”

“Then I will  _demonstrate_ how completely unaffected I am by this petty nonsense. Will that  _satisfy_ , my lady?”

“ _How_ do you plan to do that.”

Lord Baelish, with a quick and practiced gesture, seated himself behind his now wine-stained table. The lad Rian rushed to offer him his still sopping wet papers, but he was waved off with a glare. Instead, the whore-monger addressed Olyvar. “Casandre is still our biggest earner, is she not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring her in.”

Sansa just caught the handsome youth murmuring, “ _Ohhhhh dear_ ...” beneath his breath, and her hands worried at her skirts. Shae remained steadfast by her lady, but the boy Rian seemed to wish to leave.

Baelish's glare was entirely grey, and he snapped his fingers and directed the boy to the chaise along one wall. “ _You_ sit. You might yet learn something. And you, my little sweetling?” he directed to his wife, smile rather unsettling in its completeness. “Would you care to take a seat as well?”

Sansa's back straightened, her frown deepened in its determination. “I will stand, thank you.”

“As you like. Ah!” A  _gorgeous_ piece of flesh had walked into the room, hair as blonde as the gold of the Lannisters. Sansa blushed with great unease to see her, clad in gauzy, see-through silks that left none of her womanly charms to the imagination; the girl felt very plain indeed, and squeezed her handmaiden's hand. “Casandre, you remember that  _routine_ Lord Renly hired you to perform for Lord Stannis' nameday?” 

Casandre beamed a brilliant, ivory smile. “Quite well, my lord.”

“Good. Demonstrate it for our company.”

What followed was a dance (but was it a dance, without partner and with.... _those_ motions?) of such raw eroticism that Sansa, on one or two occasions, had to bury her face into the understanding shoulder of her companion. What Casandre did was not so much dance as perform the sexual act with the air itself. She twirled herself about the study, movements sharp and smooth and practiced in their sultry hypnotism, and every eye was drawn to her – but that of Lord Baelish, who kept his nose firmly buried amongst his papers, taking notes here and making scratches there. At the settee, Rian's interest was well noticeable through his breeches, and Shae scoffed with scorn. “Let me get your shawl, my lady, I am taking you home.”

“ _Not just yet_ .” It was the only time Sansa had heard her husband's voice snappish and hard. “I am proving a point here.” As he said it, the enticing Casandre spread herself over her lord's desk, full breasts not only on display, but within arm's reach. Baelish pursed his lips. “You are lying upon my expenditures.”

“A thousand apologies, my lord...” the fulsome woman purred, sliding off the desk like water from off a stone, and melting around her employer, moving down his lap and landing at his feet. “Is this preferable?”

“Don't touch me.”

She gave a laugh like music and finished the performance, rising to a stand before Sansa. Her overtly sexual air seemed to drop off like a mere costume, and Sansa found her lips were parted with a kind of awe. The woman smiled at her. “It's not as hard as it looks, my lady, should I teach you? You have a natural grace about you, you would do well.”

“I can corrupt my own wife, Casandre, thank you. Well, Sansa?” The girl's husband rose from behind the desk, not a hair out of place, not a droplet of sweat upon his brow. He was as unmoved as a stone is by tears. In sharp relief, the man upon the couch seemed in a kind of dire agony. “I think we'll both agree it was not a bad show by any means.” The girl glared at him slightly. “Do I seem  _moved_ to you.”

“ _No_ , my lord.”

“Excellent. And now it is your turn.” At her startled face, he smirked. “It's not enough to prove that trollops do not interest me, is it? I must also prove my devotion is to  _you_ and not, say, your lady mother. Is that not right?”

“I-I couldn't possibly do  _tha_ -”

“Nor would I have you – yet.” He cleared his throat and smoothed back his hair, green eyes glittering with a terrifying mischief. Shae did not seem pleased, seemed quite ready to  _drag_ her lady away, but Sansa was rooted to the spot with a kind of horrified fascination. “So, we have before us two ends of a spectrum, yes? The innocent,” he indicated Sansa, “and the experienced,” and here he motioned to the whore, who still stood with a very satisfied smile. “Humor me, my lady,” Baelish's smirking smile was just as full of mischievous ill-intent as before. “Here is what I propose: our experienced teacher Casandre will direct you, my dear, to do the most innocent gestures possible – and we shall gauge  _my_ reaction. Does this seem  _fair_ to you, sweetling?”

Sansa's red mouth was pursed; he was up to something, she  _wished_ she could think like he did. “I'm not afraid – if you think I am, I'm not.”

“I know you are not, and in fact quite  _admire_ your courage, my dear.” Sansa started slightly; could he mean that? “Casandre, if you would?”

“The honor is mine. Would you sit, my lord?” the sultry blonde asked, and obligingly, her employer sat back down behind his desk, hands folded on the stained wood, patient and expectant. Sansa stared at him there, worrying the inside of her mouth with her teeth, and jumped when the young woman gently took her hand. “Please do not worry, my lady,” she assured her with a sweet sincerity. “I swear to you nothing ill will happen.”

“It had  _better_ not,” was Shae's grumbling growl, but Sansa found herself pulled toward the desk regardless. 

Panic rose in her gullet. “I-I don't-”

“It will be  _extremely_ simple, you'll take to it quite naturally, I assure you.” With a simple tug of the arm, Casandre had pulled Lady Baelish into the Mockingbird's lap; she fell into his arms with a bit of a squeak, but Petyr caught her quickly and with sure arms. Before Sansa could make sense of anything, she found herself tucked  _very closely_ to her husband, one arm supporting the small of her back, the other below her knees, and his nose nearly brushing her own. 

From this position, she was eye to eye with Petyr, and the  _look_ in those green depths made her stomach churn; it was not something she could put into words, merely that his eyes were dark, intently focused upon her, and there was a kind of hunger and pleased possession that made her insides begin to liquify. Without warning, her mind flashed back to the wedding night, and his fingers beneath her small clothes, and- “N-now what?” Sansa asked, mouth dry and lips parted.

“What would you like, my lady?”

“Now, now,” Lord Baelish scolded. “That's cheating. An explicit instruction, something that would not stir a man not  _highly pleased_ with his selection of wife.” There was a silver flash to those green eyes and Sansa swallowed, holding up her head; no, she was not going to be afraid of this challenge. She was a Stark, after all. 

Casandre bowed her head and fought back a smirk. “Of course, my lord. A kiss seems perfectly harmless.”

Sansa balked, her blue eyes flicking up to this woman who seemed determined to  _embarrass_ her. “A-a kiss?”

“You've had them before, my sweet.” Her husband's voice was a smooth purr beside her, and Sansa's gaze went back to him with some trepidation. “You even seemed to enjoy them.” With no more warning than that, the man's lips pressed against her own, lingering there, but closed. Sansa flushed, but found herself leaning into the gentleness of the moment. Petyr was a good kisser.

Unfortunately, there was the tsking sound of Casandre bearing witness. “Lord Baelish, I would not be paid for such a kiss.”

“Are you going to let her be better than you at something, Sansa, my dear?”

The girl was unamused. “I suspect, my lord, she is better than me at a  _great many_ things.”

Her husband smirked. “How would you have wished me to kiss you had I come to bed with you?” he asked, voice a little husky.

Sansa swallowed, hard. How had she gotten into this mess? She had simply wanted to impress him into helping her return home... Or was this a kind of gift? Wouldn't this prove her mettle? Well...one way to find out. The girl's eyes closed, and with an excess in tenderness, she found herself kissing her lord husband – softly, at first, but then her hands began to move up his chest to settle about his neck and shoulders. Petyr's hand at her knees squeezed at the flesh of her thigh, and the girl gasped slightly, parting her lips. It was enough to allow the tip of his tongue access to caress her own, and Sansa found her mouth opening greedily for the sensation. It was quite a great deal longer than she was used to thinking of kisses being! And that whimpering sound, was that coming from  _her_ ? To her complete surprise, she found the moment ending with her  _sucking_ at her husband's lower lip, eyes fluttering slowly open to note his green gaze was fogged over with desire. Sansa blushed. 

Casandre was beaming at the girl. “That was considerably better!”

“So glad we meet with your approval...”

Sansa held on to her indignation, which fueled her blushes all the more. “Th-this proves  _nothing_ !” Without a word, Petyr had taken one her hands from off his shoulder, ran it slowly down his torso until her fingers met the hip bone, then pulled her inward so that she could touch- “ _Oh_ .” She was as red as any Tully ever was. “I-It was only a kiss...”

“My point exactly, Sansa...” Baelish was tempted to leave her fingers there, to drag them in soft motions around his pelvis – but that seemed a treat that would be more enjoyable if saved for later. “Are you satisfied, then, that I have not despoiled our marriage vows?”

“But then...” The girl's voice was a tiny whisper, fearing the answer. “W-why send me away?”

The man coughed and released his wife's hand only so that he could pull awkwardly at the collar of his doublet. “I...did not think you pleased with me as your partner.”

“But I was trying  _so hard_ -”

“You thought I would leave you for your  _mother_ .”

“Is that not what you want?”

Petyr's fingers held the girl by the chin, and she breathlessly met him look for look. “I would have loved your mother to my dying day – but she would not let me. When I am presented with a grander, more clever, more  _beautiful_ woman,  _why_ would I torture myself with denials?”

Shae was rolling her eyes emphatically, but Sansa was all open-mouthed and enraptured. “More beautiful than she? W-what about Casandre, you said she fetches your highest price.”

“Hmm.” The lord's hand steadied at his wife's hip, stroking and holding her in a way that tickled, but  _very_ pleasantly. “Rian, you were witness to both girls. Which do you think is the lovelier?”

The boy, seeing his chance at redemption,  _leaped_ for it. “Your wife, my lord, for true!”

“There, you see, Sans-”

“No one could ever fault your taste, she is a lady of excellent breeding and demeanor.”

“Thank you, Rian, that should suffice-”

“Why, if I could have only one more lass to fuck before being sentenced to death, I would for certainly choose-”

“ _Thank you, Rian, we get the point_ .” The lord coughed to suppress his growl as Sansa hid her blushes at his throat. “Well then. Are you satisfied now, my lady?”

Lady Baelish played with the mockingbird pin at her husband's throat, a small, satisfied smile on her red lips. “If it was not for my mother, and not for my position...Does that mean you wed me for  _affection_ , my lord?”

Lord Baelish choked, reminded of his drunken wedding vow to not lie to the girl; that was a stupid promise to make, and certainly he had broken promises before, but it seemed unnecessarily cruel to break ones made to  _Sansa_ . If he believed himself  _in love_ with her, though, the thought would have been destructive – affection of that sort was far too dangerous. But there was that Tully face, with those big, blue eyes looking up expectantly at him, red eyelashes batting as she awaited an answer. He barely kept his voice from cracking. “A very deep affection, certainly.”

Sansa seemed almost  _dangerous_ for how pleased she was, a kind of triumph making her spine straighten and her eyes flash. “Then perhaps, my lord...I may have my things moved back to  _our_ chambers?” Leaning forward, her lips brushed his ear and she whispered, “I  _can_ dance, though, I could learn....”

Lord Petyr almost wheezed. Instead, he was able to whisper in return, “And  _I_ can get you home – as my wife.”

The girl smiled with the kind of smug satisfaction that fit a member of House Baelish so well – and slid  _slowly_ off his lap, touching all the while. Her handmaiden regarded her with a kind of skeptical surprise, but said nothing. “Until this evening, my lord –  _Petyr_ .” She curtseyed again, smiling, and took her leave. Her husband inclined his head, but found his throat too dry to speak until the girl had disappeared from the study door.

With that  _intense_ distraction gone, the minor lord was able to sit up again and smooth out his various wrinkles. “Casandre, get Rian properly ready for the evening – he's working. Send Olyvar in when you go.” The boy was beyond pleased to be employed, and he bowed and scraped from the room with excessive thanks and “m'lord”s. The Mockingbird merely acknowledge this with a tilt of his brow.

The handsome young Olyvar re-entered, his fingers drumming together. “Are matters settled with Lady Baelish, then, my lord?”

“Quite. I had a note from one of Ser Mander's squires this morning.” Baelish did not look up from where he was organizing his papers, and did not miss a beat. “He'll be paying us a visit this evening. Set Rian on it.”

Olyvar hesitated, blinking dark eyes and thinking he must have misheard. “My lord...Isn't Ser Mander's moniker Ser Mander the  _Brutal_ ?”

“I've heard it's quite appropriate on and off the field,” the Mockingbird smiled in his small, sardonic way. “No one tells me how they want to fuck my wife.” And Lord Baelish was a man, after all, who made few missteps, and so others made them to their peril.

 

 


End file.
